//
you're reading...
Poetry

Pound at Rapallo

This, in my mind, will probably take place as the second or third section of a larger work.

II

At night I dream of Pound at Rapallo.
Serene, overlooking a shore
that had overtaken kingdoms.
Skin like the sand.

And I dream
of becoming one with the Earth

a single piece of glass, forgotten
as footsteps danced upon my face.

Waking as wonder as flesh turns
to wet leaves and crumbling dirt.

IV

Now, sitting with the “Men who knew Oppen”

is like reading to the dark hum
of some stainless-steel blender.

How is it, then, that we cannot agree-
No.
We will not agree.

(And we shall have no sane man again?)

“But-” my small voice begins, “what of clarity?”

The raven-haired fellow by the lamp
gives me a dirty look as voices, again,
are raised.

Advertisements

Discussion

No comments yet.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: